


Battle Planning and Cocktail Hour

by Dyzzyah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Palefic, robot cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyzzyah/pseuds/Dyzzyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody beats Roxy at a code battle, but it never helps to have a li'l strategic help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle Planning and Cocktail Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [another-righteous-badass](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=another-righteous-badass), [exemplarity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exemplarity/gifts).



> A little gift for a friend of mine who ships GamRox like dang.

“Remind a motherfucker what all he been brung around to get some assist on for a sister?” he says, sprawled out across your bed. He’s dragging his fingertips through the green-smeared pan of the pie he just ate, and he looks just too damn cute, laying all cat-like with a glob of green on the tippy-tip of his nose. Prolly licked the pan when he thought you weren’t looking.

Not like you care, tho; dude’s seen you horking up your liquid lunch a time or two and even held back your hair, you’re not gonna sass him for forgetting human manners.

“Okay, so like, I maaaaaay have made a li’l bet with Captorface that I could code the pants off his bonycute booty,” you grin, lounging in your comfy cozy compy chair, all spinning around with that mad rad robokitty Dirk made for you for your birthday in your lap like some high-class Bond villain schtick. Classic. “So now I’ve been getting blips on my radar of somebody trying to hack into RoboFrigz here.”

Frigglishbot meows, right on cue, and you pet his little rivets and listen to him purr. Trust ol’ Di-Stri to send you a quality piece of meowbot; that bro’s the bestest botster this side of Botsylvania.

Your computer makes a little ding noisey to get your attention and you turn back to your computer screen to trace the latest unidentified attack on your network--everything seems to be coming from the same IP address from the troll halfway-house next door, and even though Karkles, Big G, and Captor all live there, you’ve got two guesses who they’re coming from.

(You totes only need one guess, but it’s Sollux, so you go with two because that’s just what you _do_ when it’s Sollux)

You can hear Gamzee getting up to his feet and wander over to drape his arms over your shoulders and look at the screen. It’s coolies, though, you’re bros like that; he comes over a couple times a week and has himself a pie, you usually have a drink (one drink per two-hour block, tho, you’re doing totes better and he keeps you drinking water between boozes), and he gets up in your business on whatever you’re doing on the comp. 

Today you’re in business-mode thanks to angry Sollux hacker pride, but usually it’s just regular shit like looking up obscure rodents that are too cute to be real or laughing at porn.

Spoiler alert: bad acting and worse writing are a universal constant, and troll porn is every bit as rofl-worthy as human porn. 

So anywhos, Gamzee’s upgraded from laying on your bed to practically laying on your fine femme form, squinting at the screen over your shoulder. Yeah, he totes doesn’t get this code your fingers are dancing out to the screen, but you can hear the gears a-clicking as he works out what’s what, “So, Solbro’s got his pan up to setting on breaking into some moherfuckin’ kittencircuits and--what, perzactly? Them bits ain’t gonna just bite, what’s he been to telling Catbot to do?” he asks in a voice that sounds like laughter and sleep at the same time.

“Not a fuckin’ thing, miracle man, ‘cuz I ain’t letting him,” you grin, pausing only to pet RoboFrigglish. Looks like Ol’ Yellow is trying to circumvent another one of your securities by another route; it’s sorta cute. Pathetic, but cute. 

“Bro’s bugs getting blocked before them motherfuckers get in the door?” Gamzee snickers. He sounds proud of you. Shit it feels nice to hear someone be proud of you.

“Swatted before they even hit the stoop,” you croon, bouncing a little in your chair as you begin to sing, “Don’t mean a thing if you can’t land that ping.”

Gamzee chuckles and hums along off-key as he reaches into your lap to pick up Iron Cat. You let him, eyes trained on the screen and fingers a-flyin’, “I caught some of the code he tried sending through at first and got my e-autopsy dealie.” Gamzee seems to perk up at the sound, and leans on the desk next to you, you flick your eyes up at him (dude always loves morbid-talk, autopsies and corpses and shit; you dunno why) “It’s all p standard comp-go-boom code, but nobody’s ‘splodin’ my robocat, nosir nohow.”

You guess he hears the resolve in your sultry tones, ‘cause he’s off like a candy-horned shot to raid the minifridge. Two martini glasses, you know the drill by now. He mixes up a perf martini just the way you likes ‘em, and the extra glass gets a shot of that moon mist you keep on ice just for him. He pops a maraschino in his (omg so classy, everybody’s classy up in here, you are two classy bitches) and brings you your elixir.

You take a delicate sip and appreciate how Gamzee knows you like a little extra vermouth, and he folds his legs and sinks to the ground next to you, sipping his faygotini (minus the tini). You reach over and scratch between his horns and omg he purrs! You can’t fucking get over his purring, he’s like a big kitten that needs daily doping and smears baked sopor on your pretty pink sheets.

Right! Back to typing while RoboFrigz headbutts Gamzee’s non-drinking hand to get some pettings. Facepaint McGee obliges (because cat, really, you can’t not pet a cat, it’s like the law) and doesn’t even worry that you just literally told him that Sollux is trying to make the cat in his lap asplode; dude prolly got mad faith in your skills, and you know he’s not wrong to.

He downs the rest of his glass like a boss and pours some more from the bottle into it, swirling it around, “So remind a bro what he’s been needed on up for?”

“A brilliant and sexy dame needs somebody to be brilliant around, duh!” You give him a little nudge, “Besides, my bro’s always welcome in the Casa del Rox.”

He laughs a little and leans back against the desk, his horns only narrowly not knocking over one of your wizard statues. “So how you gonna lay up some damage back?”

You sorta look at him like “huh?” and he puts down the robokitty to kneel next to you facing the desk, one arm hugging you around the shoulder as he lazily points at the screen with one bony finger. “You’ve got defense up to bitchtits bay, sis, but you ain’t got no offense in you.”

Huh.

You hadn’t considered that!

You lean back and let the back of your neck rest in the crook of his elbow as he continues, “Not as I got any fuss up on with my yellow-bro, but if it was this motherfucker he’d got to get his feud on with, I’d lay up some badass blows, raining the mirth and might of the messiahs their-motherfuckin-selves right up on his ass.”

You perk up and deal with another incoming attack, this time it’s a sneaky little program. He’s trying to make one of your many computers explode instead; a quick check tells you he’s diverted his attention to one of the other non-cat systems on your network. No bigs, they’re all trussed up with your best security.

“See, there ain’t no harm in setting up to lay siege to a fort what got no turrets, you dig me?” he says, and already you’re plotting. “Dude got himself all night and all day to wear you the motherfuck out. You bring down the holy smite, and you know that motherfucker gonna think twofold before he up and tries again.”

“I get you, Gam-gam,” you begin, and nibble your knuckle in thought, “Thing is, he’s locked up p tight too. I can’t just brute it up like Kool Aid, ain’t my style.”

And now he’s giving you this grin, and wouldn’t you know it, bro’s telling you exactly what you’re already thinking. 

“So bring on the motherfuckin’ pain, Roxy-style.”

It only takes you like a second flat before your delicate digits are doing the tik-tak tango across your keyboard, and he’s pouring another glassful of faygo for himself, all digging the beat of your killer code. It takes a couple minutes but finally you pause, and he makes this adorbs little inquisitive grunt, like he knows that this is when he can ask what you’re potting without slowing your flow. Such a bro! 

“I got this, but I need somethin’ with a circuit in it.” You point to a box of old tech parts and antiquated comps you keep for emergencies and because why not, “Hey G-man, see if you can find me an old PDA or something, okay?”

He sets down his again-empty glass and knee-walks over to get his rummage on, and you get your main plan into action, coding like a motherfucker. When Big G hands you an old smartphone you haven’t used since fuckall, you plug it in to charge and start setting up a dummy server on it.

“Okay so, the dude of doom got his own style, but he’s fucked with the voidmistress, and I’m the sneakiest sneak to ever sneak a sneak, you dig?” Gamzee nods and you get back to coding, pointing out patches, “So’s I got four attack programs, each one with a teensy tinesy eetsy beetsy little flaw, redirecting to this little dude right here.” You tap on the smartphone screen to demonstrate, and Gamzee grins.

“But that ain’t all you’re up to doin’, is it, my bitchtits bit-witch?” he says more than asks, waggling his brows like they’re trying to jump right off his face.

You waggle right the fuck back, “You know it, bro. I got like a crapton of sneaky buggers aimed right for him, using his own call-back protocols.” You had noticed earlier that each of Sollux’s attack programs had an info retrieval protocol to report back to him whatever he found. Easy enough to use that same code to piggyback a few attack programs of your own, right?

Or a few dozen.

Holy shit you’re awesome.

Frigglishbot meows and bats at a wire dangling from the techbox and you unplug the smartphone/dummy server, untie a ribbon from one of your bigger teddy bears, and start tying the dummy with the ribbon, sorta like you’re putting it on a leash. “So I made this li’l guy here out to be my main computer, and I’m thinkin’ there’s a maths percent chance that Sol’s gonna try blowin’ it up. While he’s distracted with the Roxy-proxy, the main armada is gonna creep-creep-creep on in like an army of ghosts and then it’s fireworks, kapow!”

Gamzee gently takes the soon-to-be ka-deaded smartphone and holds the end of the leash at arm’s length, letting it dangle over the bedroom floor.

You offer him the mouse, “You want the honors, Gamzerino?”

He shakes his head, “All you, Sis,” and braces for the snap crackle pop.

You activate the invasion fleet and within like five seconds, the old smartphone smokes and the battery cover flies off in a puff of sparks. 

It’s sorta cute!

You stick your fingers in your ears, Gamzee follows suit, and you wait.

_BOOM_

You uncork your ears just in time to hear a “WHAT THE GRUBSTOMPING FUCK?” from the driveway, and look out the window to see Karkat running inside to find out why there’s a big hole where part of the guestroom roof used to be. Gamzee’s laughing his ass off, and you both grin out the window to a smoky twohorn troll who’s leaning out his own window and yelling his pert and perky posterior off at you.

“FUCK YOU LALONDE! FUCK YOUR CRUTHTY NOOK WITH AN UNLUBRICATED CACTUTH!”

You blow him a kiss and Gamzee waves, and Sollux starts cursing him out too, laying abuse against you two, your ancestors, and your offspring for the next seven generations (which is actually sorta adorbs considering his lisp) and you both head back to the desk while his house smokes and Karkat starts chewing him the fuck out.

You pick up your waaaay-too-neglected martini, and he grabs his almost-empty moon mist, and you clink drinks and toast like a pair of bosses.

The pair of you start talking about what to order for dinner, ‘cuz obviously he can’t go home for a little while, and Frigglishbot hops up on the windowsill and catloafs as a final fuck-you to ol’ Captor.


End file.
